


read about us in the morning papers

by owl_light



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Crushes, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gay Character, Love Confessions, M/M, Resolved Romantic Tension, Roommates, Sexual Identity, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owl_light/pseuds/owl_light
Summary: Dialect is something Seunghoon keeps for home, and for Seungyoon.Maybe those two are the same thing.
Relationships: Kang Seungyoon/Lee Seunghoon
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43
Collections: BBBFest Debut Round: The Bittersweet Option





	read about us in the morning papers

**Author's Note:**

> posted as part of the [bleak boyband bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/bbb_01) fan fest. I got full bingo (and then some) on this one, and the squares I used were: lying about your ideal type, giving up on asserting personal space boundaries, constant threat of falling from heights of success, being the gay one, is there even a "you" amongst the funhouse mirrors, and irony, the sixth love language. I also used the "free space" option on my bingo card, and for that I used the self-made prompt "and they were roommates! oh my god they were roommates". all of these themes are present in the fic, although some are harder to tag than others.
> 
> my full bingo card, with squares marked for this fic, is [here](https://imgur.com/a/vlABotC).

They walk the dogs together. There's a little park close to their apartment complex, tucked away behind apartment complexes just like it. Shiny new park benches that haven't had their colours dimmed by the smog and dirt yet. Freshly laid down paths that the wind sweeps clean of fallen leaves every couple of days. Low bushes and a single, solitary gingko tree. It's closer than Seoul Forest, or the river, and it's just big enough that they can let Thor and Haute run around until they're panting and tired. Thor has a little green scarf that was knit by a fan, given to Seungyoon at a fansign last winter, and a corduroy coat that makes him look like a Hongdae fashionista. Haute wears a waterproof, fur-lined coat, because it's that time of the year when he'll start shivering if he's out for long enough.

It's a crisp winter day. Seungyoon blows into his cupped hands to warm them up. Seunghoon left his gloves in the apartment, and his knuckles are already beginning to crack with the dry air. The wind bites at his cheeks.

Everything seems to be falling apart around them. 

Yang Hyunsuk is under police investigation. Seungri has left BigBang. YG Entertainment's stocks are plummeting. And they have to keep going and pretend like everything is fine. There's fansigns to smile at, variety shows to goof off on, comebacks to promote, music shows to perform on, charts to top. A whole Asia tour to go on. 

Seunghoon wants to wrap his scarf around his face tight, tight, tight, and scream at the top of his lungs, until his throat tears. Scream with all the selfishness he never likes to admit to himself about having, so he can take a breather from promotions, and stay in his room, under his blanket with Haute asleep at his feet until all of this passes like the winter does every year.

But of course they have to keep going and acting like none of it's happening. Like it's none of their business what their company is doing. Like it's not affecting every single group on the label, every staff member. Seunghoon keeps his phone switched on at night, ringtone volume turned all the way up, because he's terrified that he'll get a call from the police while he's asleep, and they'll tell him they need to take him in for questioning. That they'll drag him out of bed and take him to the station while he's still in his pyjamas, and Dispatch will be outside of their building to photograph everything. It's irrational, maybe; anxious, definitely, but knowing those things can't make Seunghoon's brain rewire itself overnight and stop him from thinking like that.

Seunghoon thinks about the weight Seungyoon must be carrying. He's the youngest of them, he shouldn't be the leader — but who else would? They wouldn't be Winner without Seungyoon at the front. Their maknae leader, the one who holds them together.

"I'm so glad Youngbae hyung is back from the military. I missed him," Seungyoon says. The steam from his hotteok fogs up his sunglasses when he takes a bite. Hotteok is a treat on those rare mornings when they can afford to take their time. They get them from the tent run by the two ahjummas on the street corner near the park, and walk back home slowly as they eat.

Haute sniffs at every traffic pole on the way. Thor tries to eat an empty Subway wrapper someone tossed on the pavement, and they have to cross the street to stop him trying to pull at his lead and swallow the whole thing in one bite.

"I'm glad we have all our sunbaes back," Seunghoon agrees. He's already burned the roof of his mouth with his hotteok. He does it every time, because he can't wait for it to cool down. "It feels good, right? Like we don't have to be the responsible ones anymore. It's back to what it was."

They walk past a store that has boxes of instant ramyeon stacked at the front, offering them in bulk at a ridiculously low price. Seunghoon almost caves in and stops to buy more buldak flavoured ramyeon than all four of them could eat in a lifetime, but Haute bounds happily ahead, and he has to keep up. 

Seungyoon chews quietly. When they cross the street, he says, "Nah, not really." Their leader maknae, the responsible one. "Don't think things'll ever be like what they were before they enlisted."

Seunghoon scoffs. He balls up the paper his hotteok was wrapped in. They pass a chicken shop, closed this early in the morning, and he lets his eyes slide over the pictures of the menu items stuck to the windows. He thinks how easy it could be to just lose all of this. How cruelly arbitrary it seemed when it happened to Hanbin. 

YG Entertainment is in the middle of the biggest crisis the company has had since it started. Worse than what happened with TOP. Worse than what happened with Park Bom. They're all walking on a tightrope right now. Seunghoon has lain awake several nights in a row, sifting through what he'd said and done in the past, even as far as before debut, every single little thing that could get him thrown as fodder for the cannons and made into yet another example of how YG fails to hold its talent under control.

They pass a real-estate agency. There's a man in the window, pulling down the old listings and sticking up new ones. There's another man standing at the open front door, sucking on a cigarette. The man spits, the gob of his phlegm hitting the pavement slow and sticky. He stares at the pair of them, and Seunghoon lengthens his stride, pulling his mask up. He passes right through the dissipating cloud of the man's cigarette smoke, acrid even through the mask he's wearing.

Seunghoon wants to hit something. He wants to go to the gym and practice his right hook on the punching bag until his knuckles hurt, because he hasn't heard anything from Hanbin in months. Because he tried to get involved and help his friend, and fucked up. The last time he tried talking to Bobby about it, he was left on read.

He squeezes the hotteok paper into a tight, small ball. He considers throwing it on the floor and kicking it all the way home, at least until he gets to the gym and can punch something for real, but his upbringing wins over. He puts it in his jacket pocket. His hand stays in there, too. He squeezes it into a fist tight enough that he feels his bones grind against each other.

They round a corner. A girl is pushing the metal rollup door up on a coffee shop. Seunghoon sees his own face, smooth, flawless, bleached, smiling saccharinely at him from the window. He quickly looks at the floor, before the girl notices him staring. Someone inside the shop turns on the music, and soft piano and gentle beats float out onto the street. Just before they're out of earshot, he hears the first lilting syllables of a ballad that will never climb further than the lower twenties in the charts.

Seungyoon steps closer to him, and then his arm is looping through Seunghoon's. Seungyoon tugs, and Seunghoon only has his dancer's coordination to thank that he doesn't trip over his own feet. Their shoulders bump together. Seungyoon is still eating — there's sugar on his lips. He sucks at his lower lip. Scrapes the sugar off with his top teeth. Licks off what his teeth didn't catch. 

Seunghoon blinks. In his pocket, he loosens his fist. "Hey, you nearly knocked me over!" He pushes his arm against Seungyoon's. "Watch it!" 

Seungyoon huffs a laugh. "If you lose your balance that easily, you need to talk to the choreographer noona." He tugs on their arms again, interlinked. "Maybe she needs to move you to the back."

"Hah!" Seunghoon barks. "And what, have you at the front with your windmill arms and your chopstick legs?" 

Seungyoon pulls his mask up over his grin. He crunches the greasy hotteok paper into a ball with his free hand, and aims at a trash can. They both watch him miss, and they watch the paper ball bounce off the edge of the can and fall to the ground. 

Thor barks, and his claws scrape against the pavement as he chases after the paper, pulling at his lead. Seungyoon lurches forward, laughing. His arm slips out from around Seunghoon's, fingers catching on the cuff of his coat sleeve. Haute yips in indignation before he chases after Thor, and Seunghoon laughs, trying to catch up, heart just a little lighter. 

* * *

Their PR team puts together a list of questions they might be asked by the press during their comeback. It lands in Seunghoon's inbox in the form of a meaty word document with _ confidential _watermarked in the footer and the rest of the members included in the CC, along with a message from their manager that they should memorise the answers as soon as they can. They have to be prepared to give them naturally, and not sound like they were spoonfed phrases by YG's PR machine. Some of the shows allow them to bring a script that they can just read off the monitor during filming, sure, but you can never be too prepared, their manager writes in the email. Especially considering everything that's gone down with YG recently. He doesn't say that part, but Seunghoon infers it pretty easily. 

The questions are all largely expected. After the first two album comebacks — the first to throw challenge after challenge at you, and the second to hammer home the fact that it really is that chaotic and draining every time, no matter how much you plan ahead — you learn that there are no questions they can throw at you that you wouldn't know how to answer, or how to smile and be vague about answering. There's bullet points on what the new album's sound is, and how it's a different direction for Winner. There's details that they can give about the various musical styles on the album, and certain keywords outlined that they should use, like _ fresh _ and _ original _ and _ bold _ and _ sexy. _Everything's written in a carefree, yet informative style, easy to memorise and parrot in front of the camera and to the fans.

Seunghoon scrolls down, to the inevitable personal questions section. Things like hobbies, and favourite music, and artists they would like to collaborate with. There's a sentence copy-pasted here that has survived through every iteration of messaging documents they've been given, about not naming Korean artists unless negotiation has started or a contract has already been signed by them or their agency for a future collaboration. Seunghoon yawns. And then, at the end, he reads: _ How would you describe your ideal type? _ And below: _ Answers open to members' interpretation. Leading words to consider: cute, fit, modest, charming, funny. Words to avoid: mature, rebellious, flirty. _

Seunghoon groans. He's been giving the same answer to that question for the last couple of promotion cycles. He really needs to come up with something different this time, or else they'll think his brain stopped developing at twenty-one.

The Winner group chat pings with a new message from Jinwoo. _ Aren't we too old to be asked about our ideal types again? We should practice our responses, I guess… I hate it when I don't know what to say on camera. _

Minho replies almost immediately. _ Hyung, just name something you like about yourself, but then phrase it like you're talking about a girl. _ Minho is good at coming up with answers and giving advice, but once they're on camera, he gets too excited to remember the script and improvises far too much. It's never been a problem, because he's hilarious, and because he's handsome and charming enough that whatever he does just _ works, _ but it's been a cause of more than a couple of tense conversations with their manager right after taping. _ Like… I like girls who are playful and artistic! _

Seunghoon grins at his phone. _ Got it, _ he texts the group chat. _ Thanks for asking, Hyunmoo hyung!! My ideal type is tall, sexy, and from Busan. _

As he sends the message, there's laughter from the hallway outside his room. He didn't even know Seungyoon was home, but either there's a tiny seagull crying in their apartment, or Seungyoon is chuckling to himself somewhere on the other side of his door.

"Hey," Seunghoon yells in the direction of the door, "didya eat yet?"

"Just got here! Was gonna order japchae!" Seungyoon yells back, voice carrying down the hallway.

Seunghoon kicks his long legs up, letting the momentum propel him out of bed. Haute raises his head from where he's sleeping in his dog tent. He watches as Seunghoon cracks his door open, his feet in socks, hanging off the doorknob like it's pulling at his centre of gravity. 

Seunghoon finds Seungyoon in the hallway, shoes off, coat still on. His hair is sticking up like he just took off his hat. He's holding his phone, and there's a plastic bag with the logo of a photo studio in his other hand, and one of his cameras slung over his shoulder. That's right, Seunghoon remembers him mentioning something about picking up expired rolls of film from a place that just restocked them in Chungmuro 2-ga.

"I want jjajangmyeon," Seunghoon says, petulant.

Seungyoon nods. "From that place on the corner, yeah? I can order for us." He's already scrolling through his phone.

"That place closed down. I think there's a Hollys Coffee there now," Seunghoon says. "We've got some black bean paste in the kitchen."

The remnants of a smile are still sticking to the corners of Seungyoon's mouth. "You want me to cook for you?"

"You're the leader, you need to take care of me." Seunghoon crosses his arms. Leans on his door frame. Pops his hip out, in that way he knows looks good. 

Seungyoon laughs, the smile that was just a hint before now lighting up his face, and says, "You're the hyung, you need to take care of _ me_." Not missing a beat.

"Alright," Seunghoon deadpans, unconvinced but relenting because hunger trumps him winning this argument. Seungyoon might have the battle, but he won't have the war. "I'm making the noodles, you're making the sauce."

It's a little unfair. The noodles take less time, and less effort. Seungyoon isn't great at cooking, even though jjajangmyeon, if you asked Seunghoon, doesn't take that much skill. Seungyoon chops the vegetables and dices the meat, and Seunghoon sits at the dinner table, both feet on his chair, scrolling through his phone and trying to find music to play that they'd both like. He finds something upbeat, one of Seungyoon's recent favourites, so that he can laugh at him when Seungyoon starts humming along to the lyrics and tapping his foot. 

He takes a photo of Seungyoon while he's frying the pork, and considers sending it to the Winner group chat because it looks like they're on a cooking show, with Seungyoon in Seunghoon's apron and the sleeves of his cardigan rolled up. But he knows exactly what the outcome would be if he lets the rest of the band know that they're making dinner. Minho and Jinwoo will be ringing their doorbell in no time at all. And it's not that Seunghoon dislikes cooking for all his members, but it's been a while since it was just him and Seungyoon like this. WIth nobody else in their apartment except their dogs, sleepy and lazing around the living room while their owners make dinner. He likes it too much to involve other people. The coziness and domesticity of it, the tap of Seungyoon's foot to the music and how he only remembers the chorus and mumbles through the rest of the lyrics.

"Hey." Seunghoon looks up from his phone. Seungyoon is pointing a wooden spoon at him, handle out, like he wants Seunghoon to take it. "Come help with the sauce," Seungyoon says. "I'm doing all the work." He pointedly adds, "Hyung."

Seunghoon tugs the spoon out of his hand. "It's _ sunbae _if I'm cooking," he says. "You have black bean paste…" He points at a spot on Seungyoon's chest. Seungyoon looks down, and Seunghoon flicks his nose with his index finger. He chuckles at Seungyoon's frown.

He ends up making both the sauce and the noodles, because Seungyoon has a tendency to overcook noodles any time he makes them. Seungyoon plays with his camera, putting in the roll of film he just bought. 

While Seunghoon is stirring the sauce, waiting for it to thicken, he hears the camera shutter clicking. "Hey, hyung. Hey, look over here." When Seunghoon doesn't respond, Seungyoon sighs. "_Sunbae_," he says.

Seunghoon grins to himself. He looks to his left, where Seungyoon is half-perched on the kitchen counter. Seungyoon laughs behind his camera, gorgeous even though most of his face is hidden. His hands are lovely. He's lost the apron somewhere, thrown over the back of the sofa, probably, because he never puts Seunghoon's stuff back properly. He shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes. He says, "Your hands are covered in black bean paste."

"Watch it or your face'll be covered in black bean paste," Seunghoon says. There's black bean paste on his fingers, and the backs of his hands, and even on his wrists and forearm, because no matter how many times he makes jjajangmyeon, the one thing he still hasn't learned is how to keep himself and the rest of the kitchen free of jjajang. He stretches his arms out, pawing at the air. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, like Jhonny when she's playfighting Bei and trying to make herself more intimidating. 

"Do you want to die!?" The way Seungyoon says it, he spits it out with all the ferocity of a warrior drawing a sword, and it's so at odds with what he's normally like that it makes Seunghoon completely break character. He laughs, so hard that his teeth show and his eyes close, eyelids pushed together by his cheeks going up, and that's when he hears the snap of the shutter on Seungyoon's camera.

The noodle water boils over a second later.

They eat hunched over their bowls. The sauce is good, just the right thickness and as sweet as it should be. Seunghoon is a good cook, and he's never tired of proving that to himself. The noodles are slightly overcooked, because that's what happens every time Seungyoon has a hand in making them. Seunghoon adds hot sauce on his, and for a while there's nothing but the sound of metal chopsticks against stoneware.

And then Seungyoon wipes his mouth and says, "We should practice our answers, though." He looks thoughtful, like he'd been considering how to say it for a while. 

Seunghoon slurps his noodles. "Are you thinking of doing media training with me now, for real?" He says, through a mouthful of food. His eyes slide to the clock on the wall, and back. It's eleven at night. He swallows, licks his lips. "PD-nim?"

Seungyoon clicks his tongue. "I wanna get a proper head start on this. We won't have time later when rehearsals start. Especially not if we need to do pickups for the B-sides." He stirs his food with his chopsticks, looking at Seunghoon. "And then the Japanese album. And you said you wanted to start having longer gym sessions, too." He grins wide. "Isn't that what you said, hyung? That you wanted to take your shirt off on stage more, and needed to work out more because of it?"

Seunghoon widens his eyes. "You calling me _ unfit? _" Seungyoon grins to himself, and wraps more noodles around his chopsticks. "I can't believe you're talking to me like that." Seungyoon sucks all the noodles on his chopsticks in his mouth, and chews with his cheeks bulging and his mouth smudged with black bean sauce. He raises his eyebrows at Seunghoon, who huffs. "Fine," he concedes, because Seungyoon is right, and it's a little infuriating. "I'll pull up the document on my phone, and we can go through it."

Seungyoon shakes his head. "Nah, no looking," he says, his mouth full. "The questions aren't that complicated." He swallows, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "You should be good at this without a prompter by now." He's not wrong. They've had six years of this, Seunghoon should be able to do it in his sleep. 

"Fine," Seunghoon says again. He straightens up in his chair. He clears his throat. "Hello, I'm Hoony of Winner! Ask me about our comeback album, CROSS!" 

They sit at the table with the leftover black bean sauce drying in their empty bowls as Seungyoon goes down the list of questions and levels them at Seunghoon, one by one. Seunghoon doesn't do that badly, considering he only gave the whole document a cursory read. There's a lot of humming and sighing, a fair amount of _ that's a great question _ as he tries to remember the right phrases, and he can tell he needs to practice much more if he wants this to sound natural. 

And then they swap. Seunghoon pulls the messaging document up on his phone, and starts asking Seungyoon what a journalist or a variety show host would in his place. It's only when Seungyoon starts answering that Seunghoon's confidence in his own answers completely deflates. Because Seungyoon is great at this. He hits all the keywords. He's charming. He manages to recite every non-answer to make it sound like he's actually saying something of substance. 

There's a difference between Seunghoon's friend and dongsaeng Seungyoon, and Yoon of Winner, their leader. They speak differently, for one. When it's just the two of them, they always speak in dialect. As soon as they start practicing the questions, though, both of them switch to the standard, Seoul way of speaking, eliminating any traces of Busan, because this is _ work. _You can't sound like anything else except the most polished, cleanest version of your speech if you want to be an idol, so they speak the way they're supposed to instead of what they're most comfortable with. 

Dialect is something Seunghoon keeps for home, and for Seungyoon. Maybe those two are the same thing.

They get into the personal questions, and Seungyoon's answers are still delivered with a smile, and they're all completely fake. Not in a negative way, just in a safe, comfortable way where nothing he says could possibly get him into trouble. Those quotes would look great on a sticker, or cut out and stuck in a schoolgirl's scrapbook. They'd turn out great as a soundbite on their next Dingo video. 

"Yoonie-yah," Seunghoon says, after Seungyoon's third answer that's the equivalent of a bow-wrapped bento box, delicate and perfect, "this is really boring. You're sugar-coating it too much, I'm getting no personality at all. You have to try something else." He rolls his shoulders, scrolling down the list of questions until his eye catches on one. _ How would you describe your ideal type? _Seunghoon smirks to himself. "Okay, I've got one. But I want a fun answer." He narrows his eyes at Seungyoon. "If you keep giving me these middle-of-the-road, rookie-style answers, I'm not doing this anymore."

Seungyoon sighs. "I think I'm doing fine. I'm hitting all the messaging we've been given."

"You're boring me to _ tears_," Seunghoon drawls, dropping back into dialect because he doesn't care about pretending to be a journalist anymore. "You're doing fine, but I'm not excited about you at all. You wanna lose all your fans to Minho?"

"Minho deserves all his fans!"

"So do you!" Seunghoon says, exasperated. "But if you don't give them anything that makes them wanna keep paying attention to you, they'll move on to someone else in the group! Or some other group completely. Do you want that?" Seungyoon opens his mouth, but Seunghoon cuts him off with, "No, you don't."

"Okay, I'll work harder," Seungyoon says, stubbornly sticking to the way he speaks when he's being Yoon, Winner's leader.

Seunghoon puts his phone on the table, screen down. He doesn't need the list for this one. "If you could fuck any girl you wanted," he starts, and the way he says _ fuck _ and the way he says _ girl _and the way he says everything else has Busan in every syllable, and it has Seungyoon widening his eyes at him, "with no consequences, right now, who would it be?"

Seungyoon was playing with his chopsticks. His hands are still now. "That's not— I don't—" He scoffs a laugh. "I'm not telling you that. That's not a question we would _ ever_—"

"I rephrased the ideal type question," Seunghoon says easily. "Just think of her, and then without mentioning her name, tell me what you like about her."

Seungyoon places both his hands on the table. He presses his lips together, thinking. The first thing he says, to the corner of the table is, "Tall." He looks over at Seunghoon. "I like someone I can look in the eye before we kiss." 

Seunghoon chuckles. Both of them are tall, but most Korean girls usually aren't. So either Seungyoon is planning on staying single forever, or he really likes foreign girls. If it's the latter, It's a good ploy to get the attention of their international fans. If it's the former, that will make everyone happy, because that way he belongs to all of them, and to no one at the same time. 

"I like someone who knows how to dress well, too," Seungyoon goes on. The way he speaks is very careful, like he's visualising every word in his head before he says it. He's looking at the table, still. He's wearing a green cardigan that's slightly too big on him — he has to keep pushing the sleeves up so that they don't cover his knuckles. His hands are lovely, and there's a little buzz in Seunghoon's brain that makes him think he's had that observation too much lately. He squashes it into silence. "But not a fashion victim. Someone who makes her own trends."

Seunghoon thinks he's seen the cardigan somewhere before, and then he remembers it from his closet, a couple of days ago, when he'd thought about wearing it and picked something else instead. He points at Seungyoon. "That's my cardigan."

"It's not," Seungyoon says immediately, his lie as easy as it is bare-faced. Seunghoon huffs softly. He'll take it back when Seungyoon next leaves the house. And it will probably still smell of his cologne, because he won't wash it, and Seunghoon can't say he'll mind. 

"I like piercings," Seungyoon continues, like Seunghoon hadn't interrupted him. He's looking at his face now, not at the table anymore. "Like, nose piercings." Seunghoon sniffs. He has a sudden need to scratch his nose piercing, but instead he just drums his fingers on the table, once. The sound makes Seungyoon look down to his hand. His eyebrows twitch like he's going to frown, but then he seems to change his mind.

Seungyoon smiles, slow. He ducks his head like he's shy. Seunghoon can't tell if he's actually shy, or just using it as a tactic to stall for time until his next answer. "I like short hair, too," he says. "I think it's sexy." He looks up, then, eyes unmistakably resting on Seunghoon's buzz cut.

Seunghoon scoffs a breath. "Right."

Seungyoon asks, "Have I convinced you?"

A lot of things slot into place in Seunghoon's mind, all at once. They scream for his attention. There's a rushing sound in his ears for a moment, like listening to a seashell. _ Tall. Knows how to dress well. Nose piercings. Short hair. _Seungyoon is looking at him, waiting for an answer.

Seunghoon nods.

"Alright," Seungyoon says. "Your turn now." He's watching Seunghoon with his chin resting on the heel of his hand, elbows on the table. The sleeves of Seunghoon's cardigan that he's wearing are too wide for his arms, and they slip down. The skin on his wrists is thin. 

Seunghoon can see the spiderwebs of his veins, blue.

He closes the little door in his mind and shuts out the din of all of his thoughts screaming at him. They're not helpful, and so he doesn't need to address them. 

He props his own chin on his hand, mirroring Seungyoon's body language. "My ideal girl," he says, saying _ girl _like he'd never lived anywhere outside of Seoul, "should be cute, and sweet." Seungyoon makes a noise of encouragement, in exactly the same way a variety talk show host would. "I like girls with a lot of aegyo, but who aren't afraid to be sexy," Seunghoon says. 

Seungyoon hums, thoughtful. "I can tell you're lying," he says, as easily as if he's reading a shopping list. "You need to get better at that."

When you're an idol, your personal space shrinks to the size of a grain of rice. Make up artists, and hair stylists, and choreographers, and photographers, and variety show hosts and your fans, they all occupy that space that you thought was yours. Now it's on loan to them, until your contract runs out. It's normal. It's expected. You don't as much get used to it as you give in to it, because it's not like you can stop it or change it much. They will not stop touching your clothes, your hair, your face, your hands, your body — because they have more right to it than you. 

You, Seunghoon was always told, are YG. You are Winner. You are Hoony. Lee Seunghoon signed all that as fact when he pressed his thumb on the contract.

So he's used to it. The prodding, the poking, the fiddling and the touching. The many, many nervous hands of fans gripping his during fansigns, fingers interlinked. None of that space feels personal anymore.

Now, Kang Seungyoon isn't even touching him. They're sitting on opposite ends of the table. But the way Seungyoon holds himself — chin on hands, elbows on the table, blinking slowly like wishing for sleep. And the way he's looking at Seunghoon — anticipatory, like they're playing go-stop and he's waiting for Seunghoon's counter to the cards he just placed on the table.

It makes Seunghoon's stomach twist in a knot. It makes the room feel ten times smaller.

If his thoughts were a field of tall winter wheat, swaying gently in the wind, Seungyoon was the scythe in autumn.

Seunghoon gets up from the table. The chair scrapes on the floor. "Right," he says. Seungyoon sits up straight, looking up at him. Seunghoon takes their empty bowls. The chopsticks scrape against the sides of the bowl. "I'll think about it."

Seungyoon breathes a laugh. It doesn't sound sincere, or relieved. It sounds like he's trying to calm them both down. "Yeah. We have time."

Seunghoon is not sure he's right. He barely sleeps, and not because he's thinking of what other dirt Dispatch has on him. He's thinking about the way his cardigan hugged Seungyoon's frame, and how he looked at him when he said, _ Have I convinced you? _

* * *

Deep in the bowels of a KBS building, in the men's bathroom, Seunghoon has an anxiety attack. 

It's after the We K-Pop taping. He's still in makeup, still in the white shirt he wore on stage, slightly damp with sweat. He excuses himself the minute they're backstage, but it's only when he gets into the men's bathroom and ducks down to see that the stalls are empty that he lets himself clutch at one of the sinks and hyperventilate, spots of light dancing across his vision.

He wants Haute. He wants to be home. He wants out of this makeup, and out of these clothes, and out of this job. He wants to walk out of here and be a normal person. 

And at the same time, he never wants to leave this bathroom. He wants these tiles and this mirror and this sink to be his entire world.

The little door in his mind bursts open, and all the noise floods out, all at once. 

They'd played that stupid game they sometimes make them play on variety shows, when they have two of them hold hands, fingers interlinked, look into each other's eyes, tell each other _ I love you _ and try to make the other one laugh by saying embarrassing things. Seunghoon is good at that game. He's _ great _at it. His poker face is unbeatable. 

When he'd picked Seungyoon for his partner, it was hilarious to see him trying so hard to make Seunghoon break and not crack up laughing himself at the same time. And Seunghoon had been winning. He'd even been hamming it up for the cameras with having Seungyoon's hand stroke his buzz cut when Seungyoon complimented it. He'd been unflappable, even when Seungyoon pushed their faces really close together and all the girls in the crowd were screaming. 

He'd been doing so, _ so _well until Seungyoon stood on tiptoe, and lowered the mic so it wouldn't pick up what he was whispering in Seunghoon's ear. Until Seungyoon leaned in so that the camera wouldn't catch how his lips were moving. And said, really close to Seunghoon's ear, "Convinced about my ideal type yet? Your turn now."

Seunghoon had sat back down after that almost immediately, still expressionless, declaring Seungyoon winner of that round. He'd taken the panic that was threatening to burst in his lungs at that moment, and wrapped it up really tight, and locked it in a box in a corner of his mind. 

And then, when they turned off the cameras, when he went to the bathroom, he opened the box. He unlocked the little door that kept all the things he didn't want to think about at bay.

He's shaking when he leans forward, above the sink, forward enough that the top of his head hits the cold glass of mirror. He hasn't had any solid food since the morning, which is good, because he would be throwing it up now. His stomach keeps cramping.

Seungyoon is his dongsaeng and his leader. And Seunghoon can't stop thinking about his lips on his ear, and Seungyoon's hand on his neck, keeping him close. About that evening in their apartment, Seungyoon saying _ I can tell you're lying_. How calm he'd looked when he'd said it. How lovely his hands are. How small the room felt then.

Seunghoon splashes water on his neck, rubs at the muscles. Digs his nails into his skin until it hurts. He has to pull himself together, because he needs to go back and have them take off his makeup, and he needs to change into his jeans and his hoodie, and his manager has to drive him to the next thing. He can't remember what the next thing is, now. Dance rehearsal? Gym? Photoshoot? Does it matter?

The door to the bathroom opens as he's staring at himself in the mirror. His eyeshadow is smudged from sweat. In the mirror, he sees Jinwoo enter, in another one of those ill-fitting, oversized jackets they insist he wears. 

"Seunghoon-ah." He only says it when he's standing at the sink next to Seunghoon. "Are you okay?" His voice is soft. Always careful, just in case they're overheard. 

"No one else here," Seunghoon says, and he sees Jinwoo's shoulders relax almost immediately, even under the stupid jacket. Seunghoon's voice sounds choked to his own ears, like he's trying to talk around a hot dumpling in his throat. "I'll be fine." At least he's not shaking anymore. 

"Ah, okay," Jinwoo says. Unconvinced, but he knows Seunghoon well enough at this point to know that he won't get anything else out of him if he pushes. "Thanks for picking me first for the love game and not making it weird." They'd tried to make it funny instead, talking about Seunghoon's bowel movements and Jinwoo's bad breath. It was less mortifying for Jinwoo that way.

"Of course," Seunghoon says. He could always take jokes about how he takes a shit, if that meant his hyung was more comfortable. He was a good dongsaeng like that, and Jinwoo knew he could rely on him. 

"I _ really _hate when they try to engineer it so we act gay for views," Jinwoo says. He's still wearing the heavy, camera-ready makeup, just like Seunghoon. They used foundation a shade lighter than his natural skin tone on him. It makes him look even younger and more delicate than usual. It makes his anger more apparent. "It's cheap."

"It doesn't matter. It's just for fun." Seunghoon's chest still feels tight. His heart is still thumping. 

Jinwoo presses his lips together tight. "It matters to me. It should matter to you."

Seunghoon has never had this conversation with Jinwoo. Not like this, because Jinwoo is quiet. He never brings this stuff up. Not with Seunghoon, at least. He must have talked to some of the others about it. If not Minho, then surely Jinhwan. Seunghoon never talks about any of it, because it hadn't felt safe to do it when they were still all living in the dorm together, and it doesn't feel safe talking about it now that they live apart. Nowhere except maybe Jinwoo's room, with both their phones turned off, just in case. Seunghoon is getting too paranoid about cameras and microphones in his old age, he thinks. Or maybe he's just not been paranoid enough before now. 

"Why? We've always been doing shit like this," Seunghoon says. He's had to accept it a while ago. "It's not like it'll _ stop._"

"Does that mean you'll keep giving them what they want, like the kids are doing?" Jinwoo often calls Seungyoon and Minho _ the kids _when talking about them, and it's so endearing to Seunghoon. It's not endearing now, with the way Jinwoo's face is set, like he's so close to shouting. "You should know better."

"It's good TV. It gets us talked about," Seunghoon says, and knows he's right. There's going to be clips and GIFs of him and Seungyoon online for weeks after the show airs. "That kind of attention sells records. It gets us more streams." 

Jinwoo's eyes are wide. "Is that really how you feel?" He sighs. "Am I talking to Deputy Lee or am I talking to my friend?" That one cuts like a knife, even though Jinwoo says it as softly as he says most things. "I don't want who I am to be treated as a joke, Hoon-ah, and I don't want to just shrug it off because it gets us more _ streams_," he snaps, voice getting reedy. "I'm not—" He sniffs, bringing a hand to his face. "I'm not going to roll over and take it," he says, rubbing at his temple.

"I'm sorry," Seunghoon says. He hopes Jinwoo doesn't cry. He'd rather be yelled at more. He deserves that much more than Jinwoo deserves to cry over something like this, or anything at all. "I don't think you're a joke, hyung." 

Jinwoo lets out a little groan, like he'd stubbed his toe on something. "Then don't dismiss me when I tell you something is bothering me. Even if talking about it makes you uncomfortable."

"Why would it make me uncomfortable?" It's an instinctive question, because Seunghoon has always had trouble knowing when to stop being contradictory for the sake of it. Because it's always everyone _ else _who is wrong. Because he can never stop pushing.

"You're always uncomfortable when I talk about being gay." Jinwoo says it calmly. He doesn't sound like he's going to start crying anymore. "Every time."

Seunghoon tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about a lot of things — how Jinwoo has a little over a year before he has to enlist, Seungyoon's hands, how he hasn't talked to anyone from iKON since Hanbin left, how their contract with the company expires around the same time as Jinwoo's enlistment, Seungyoon saying, _ Have I convinced you? _

"I've— hyung, I've always supported you—" he stammers. Jinwoo hums, and Seunghoon is so glad to be interrupted that he immediately cuts himself off. 

"You have. And I'm grateful." Jinwoo closes his eyes, and sighs. "So don't fucking tell me that homophobic jokes are good TV." When he opens his eyes again, they're levelled right at Seunghoon, and there is nowhere else to look but right back. 

Seunghoon's insides feel rancid, like there's a sour, bubbling ulcer forming in his stomach. The sink and the mirror are at his back. Jinwoo is between him and the exit. "Sorry," he says, and there's that dumpling back in his throat again. "I'm sorry. Really." He can feel his own sweat drying on his shirt. "You're right. I'll stop being an asshole."

"I hope so." Jinwoo shifts his weight. "For your sake, too." Seunghoon can't keep looking at his face anymore, at how Jinwoo's anger falls back under the surface to be replaced by something much softer and kinder. Another one of those things Seunghoon wants to add to his list of things he tries not to think about. He hates being looked at like that. Like he's helpless.

He goes back to the dressing room. He lets them clean the makeup off his face. He changes into his jeans and his hoodie in a room full of people, including his members and all their managers. He does it all on autopilot. Most of them have already seen him naked, and it doesn't matter at this point. 

They pack them in the van, and drive them to the next thing. It turns out to be a shoot for some kind of vitamin drink that the company wants their faces on. They put them in different clothes, and reapply a different kind of makeup on their faces. One shade lighter for Jinwoo, always. Shiny lip balm for Seungyoon. They say they'll cover Minho's tattoos in post. 

Seunghoon keeps Minho company during his smoke break. Minho shows him a timelapse video of a painting he's working on, a self-portrait in secondary colours. It's fantastic, and Seunghoon tells him as much. Minho smiles wide at him, eyes shining with the happiness that comes from being praised by his hyung. 

Anxiety still clings to Seunghoon's shoulders, like Minho's cigarette smoke seeps into his clothes. They blitz them with fabric spray when they're back, unfeeling and methodical like they're spraying for bugs. Seunghoon stands around looking pretty, smelling of cloying, sickly sweet florals. 

All the thoughts in his head buzzing all at once, while the cameras click and flash. 

They put them in the van again. Seunghoon shares his headphones with Minho, and plays him that album he found on Soundcloud that he'd been meaning to share with Minho for weeks. Seunghoon's eyes wander to the rear-view mirror, to a reflection of Seungyoon and Jinwoo in the backseat, lit softly by the screen of Jinwoo's phone, whispering to each other. 

The screen turns itself off, drowning them in the blue-dim dark of the back of the car just as Seunghoon catches the upward quirk of Seungyoon's smile. 

He wonders what they were talking about. He knows he won't ever ask. 

They don't speak on the lift ride back up to their flat. Seungyoon taps at his phone and Seunghoon stares at his shoes, thoughts swirling in his head like soap suds circling the drain. He holds his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. Fingers of both hands clasped over each other, squeezing, pressing until the skin is stretched thin and pale over his knuckles. 

They take their showers, and Seunghoon goes through his skincare routine while Seungyoon brushes his teeth, toothbrush buzzing next to Seunghoon. They need to be up at five so they can get a chance to squeeze some time for a gym session before dance practice. It's either the luxury of personal space and solo bathroom use, or an extra half hour of sleep, and Seunghoon has been yawning so much for the past two hours that it's hardly even a choice at this point.

His head hits the pillow, and he sleeps. 

The alarm shrieks him awake what feels like seconds after.

He dresses, goes through his skincare routine, brushes his teeth, shaves, bumping elbows with Seungyoon. 

They walk the dogs in silence, half asleep, with Seoul just waking up. There's no light on the horizon yet, and even if there were, it would be hard to see past the fine dust. It's worse today. Seunghoon gives the spare dust mask that he always has in his pocket to Seungyoon, because he went out without one.

Seunghoon sweats through dance practice, trainers squeaking on the polished floor. All four of them have lunch at the cafeteria together. Jinwoo picks out a piece of meat from his plate and puts it on Minho's rice. Seunghoon opens his phone to a text from Daeil which just says, _ Your turn now. _

He suffers through a planning meeting for their Asian tour, sucking on his iced americano straw every time he feels the need to yawn. Minho rips a page from his notebook and folds it into a rose. He tucks it in Seungyoon's hair, and Seungyoon laughs, cheeks going round, eyes going small. Seunghoon stabs himself in the roof of his mouth with his straw. 

The two of them are back in the van, back in the lift, back on their sofa. The TV is showing reruns of an old _Knowing Bros_ episode they've both seen. Seunghoon throws a blanket over the both of them, and Seungyoon leans his head on his shoulder. Seunghoon runs the tip of his tongue over the roof of his mouth, worrying the cut. Seo Janghoon's laughter fades into white noise as Seunghoon's eyes slip shut of their own volition. It's been a long day.

He wakes up, later, still on the sofa, to a touch on his cheek. He thinks it's the blanket — it feels soft enough. But he can feel the weight of the blanket on his lap. It must have slipped down while he napped. 

Seunghoon opens his eyes. The sound on the TV is muted, now, playing some drama that Seunghoon doesn't recognise. 

It's not, Seunghoon realises belatedly, the blanket touching his cheek. 

The backs of Seungyoon's fingers are soft against the line of his jaw. 

He's wearing Seunghoon's cardigan again. The green one that's slightly too big on him. His sleeves are rolled up. His hands are lovely. Long fingers and thin wrists. His eyes are half-closed and sleepy, but there's a dimple in his cheek, the one he always gets when he starts to smile.

"Wh—"

It's all Seunghoon manages before Seungyoon's hand cups his face, tilts it down, and then they're kissing. 

Seungyoon's lips are soft, and his tongue is wet, and it wraps around Seunghoon's tongue like he's wanted this. He grips Seunghoon's shoulder with his other hand like he tried to give Seunghoon time to decide he wanted it too, but got sick of waiting. 

Seunghoon makes a noise that comes from the centre of his chest, that leaves his mouth in a weak breath, and he tugs on Seungyoon's wrist. He yanks the blanket off his lap, lets it fall to the floor. He doesn't care that they haven't hoovered in weeks, not even for a second, because Seungyoon is taking the hint and throwing one long, long leg over his lap.

"Seunghoon," Seungyoon says, and he doesn't say _ hyung. _He says it soft, deep and sleepy, and he says it against the thin skin of Seunghoon's temple. 

Seunghoon wraps his arms around Seungyoon's waist, and pulls him closer until Seungyoon's ass is against his crotch. "Yeah," he says, stupidly, "yeah," he says, catching Seungyoon's lips with his, delighted that Seungyoon opens his mouth and pokes his tongue out to meet his, that Seungyoon doesn't hesitate in leaning into him and kissing him again.

"Told ya—" Seungyoon runs his fingers over Seunghoon's shaved head, like he's trying to grab for something that isn't there. Seunghoon snorts into the dip between Seungyoon's nose and cheek. "Told ya I liked your short hair."

Seunghoon is thinking with that part of his brain left over by evolution as a present from when lizards were the dominant lifeform. Or birds, depending on which theory you subscribe to. He gets his hands on Seungyoon's thighs, right where his legs meet his ass. He squeezes tight until Seungyoon moves in his lap. Hips shifting forward, knees digging into the sofa on either side of Seunghoon.

When Seungyoon moves to drag their mouths back on each other, the stubble on his chin sandpaper scrapes against Seunghoon's cheek. His hands are on Seunghoon's shoulders. Seunghoon catches himself wondering if Seungyoon shaved that morning. He can't remember. He hopes he hasn't, that he'll look in the mirror and his chin will be read from Seungyoon's stubble and how much they kissed.

He pushes his cardigan off Seungyoon's shoulders, and refuses to stop kissing him even as Seungyoon struggles out of the sleeves, even as he laughs into Seunghoon's mouth and sends the cardigan flying. Buttons clack softly on the surface of the coffee table where it lands.

Seungyoon is breathing shallowly when Seunghoon stops kissing him. His pupils are wide. His hair is haloed blue and pink by the light of the TV behind him. It gives easily when Seunghoon pushes his hands through it. 

Seungyoon grins with one corner of his mouth, almost a smirk, and presses down on his own lower lip with his top teeth. He keeps his eyes on Seunghoon's as he does it, and Seunghoon groans, a little out of frustration, a lot out of the rising need to know what Seungyoon's teeth would feel like if he did that to Seunghoon's lips, to his neck, his chest. 

Seungyoon twists a corner of Seunghoon's shirt around one of his long fingers, and tugs on the fabric. Seunghoon just wants to be kissed again. He brings his fingers to Seungyoon's softly smiling mouth. He presses down on Seungyoon's full bottom lip, watching it dip under the pressure and the skin underneath his fingernails turn pale. Watching Seungyoon's jaw relax, and his mouth fall open. 

Seungyoon's tongue comes out to touch the tips of Seunghoon's fingers. His breath, hot, fans across Seunghoon's skin. 

Seunghoon moves his fingers away so he can replace them with his tongue. So he can grab Seungyoon's ass and pull him down against him. 

So he can jolt awake in the dark of his bedroom, alone, breath coming shallow and fast, hard in his pyjamas. 

He stares at the ceiling, nothing but a grey blob until his vision adjusts, until his breathing levels out. 

He thinks of dirty paint water. Of that one time Thor got into the leftover McDonald's and had diarrhoea all over the kitchen floor. The loud way his dad hacks and spits every time he brushes his teeth. The sound of the drill at the dentist. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and counts the seconds between his inhales. 

He sits up in bed, very gingerly, biting down on his lower lip with the discomfort, and checks his phone. 

The screen tells him it's two in the morning. He can hear Haute breathing in his sleep from his little dog tent. He checks his messages. The last text from Daeil is _ door code's 6222 like mba lol geddit_, from two weeks ago when Seunghoon had visited the dance studio where his friends were practicing. He rubs his chin. He needs to shave in the morning. 

He sinks back down on the bed, phone clutched in his hand. He feels the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and finds it smooth. 

It had felt real. All of it. Seungyoon's voice against his skin, his fingers running through Seunghoon's buzzed hair, his smile. His stubble. The way he kissed. 

Seunghoon exhales forcefully through his mouth. He opens Kakao on his phone. He has to talk to someone about this or he'll explode. It's the only scenario where he won't spend the whole night getting steamrolled by the weight of his own guilt.

He scrolls through his recent conversations, and a name jumps out at him. Of course, who else would it be?

** maetamong 2:13 **yo hyung. can I ask you something  
** maetamong 2:13** what do you do when you think someone might LIKE like you… and then you have a sex dream about them  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:15** ahh it's two in the morning ㅠㅠ why me ㅠㅠ  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:15** we don't live together anymore, why do you insist on telling me about your wet dreams  
** maetamong 2:16** im sorry  
** maetamong 2:16** but also I wouldn't be asking if I didn't really need advice  
** maetamong 2:18** you've seen hundreds of dramas hyung you have to know how these things work  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:19** true true I am an expert on romance 😂😂😂  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:21** ok well  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:22 **what I usually do is jerk off and move on  
** jinu hyung 🐰 2:22** and don't send me a disgusted sticker! you asked! 

Seunghoon pulls up the sticker menu, picks the one of the duck that looks like she's going to be sick, and sends that to Jinwoo. Just because he has a waning erection thanks to a sexy dream about his leader, friend and flatmate, doesn't mean he's above being petty. He's never above that.

His phone buzzes with a message from a different conversation.

** song hugeboy ⛅ 2:23** oh shit you have a crush!?  
** maetamong 2:23** hey bastard what the fuck are u doin meddling in this  
** song hugeboy ⛅ 2:26** I just read your texts over hyung's shoulder hhh  
** maetamong 2:26** are you two in bed together or something 😂  
** song hugeboy ⛅ 2:27** nah we're watching midnight runners in the living room

Seunghoon almost types _again?_, but he's not ready, or willing, to talk to Minho about the merits of Park Seojoon's acting, which obviously have absolutely nothing to do with how handsome Minho thinks he is. They've already talked about it once when Seunghoon had to sit through the first couple of episodes of _ Fight For My Way_, and that was more than enough. 

** jinu hyung 🐰 2:24** I mean, you don't have to move on! just ask her out. you're lee seunghoon, how could she say no. 

Seunghoon stares at Jinwoo's new message, scoffs, and then types, _ did minho tell you to say that? _ The text from Minho arrives almost instantly, just a short but pointed, _ lmao_. 

He locks his phone, shoving it under his pillow. When he turns on his side and tucks the duvet under his chin, he does it ferociously and with his whole body, enough to make the bed screech a little, and for Haute to huff in his sleep from his dog tent.

He closes his eyes and tries to will his dick to go down, tries to entice sleep back into his brain. He thinks about the warm feeling of fresh dog shit through the plastic bag when he scoops it up. The dull, deep pain of the tattoo needle as it went over the top of his spine. Mold he found growing over leftover fried rice in the fridge. He readjusts himself in his underwear. He breathes out through the thin line of his mouth, huffing into the curl of his duvet. 

He wonders what he's afraid of. The consequences of it all, surely, the aftermath of saying absolutely anything to Seungyoon that might acknowledge how either of them feel. Or it's that he's dreading he'll have to spend a moment with himself and think about what it means to suddenly be thinking about his friend's hands, and his lips, and to dream of how he'd kiss. That he'll look too hard at himself, peel away all the layers of the different people he has to be that he keeps wrapped tight around himself, and have to see all his bumps and scars, and all the places he's soft where he'd want to be as tough as diamonds. 

He knows what he's afraid of. That when he takes everything off, there won't be anything left. That there's no pearl in the shell, no gift in the wrapping. That all he is, is what other people made him. Just glitter and ribbons, tissue paper and perfume. 

And he knows what terrifies him. That someone might love him for that, might mistake the polished, perfected coating for the whole picture, and love that. Even though when you look closer, you can see that the corners haven't been painted in. That they'll be perfectly happy with the personality built for public consumption. Mistake it for who he can be when the doors close and the cameras turn off. Even though he doesn't truly know if he's anyone when nobody's looking.

He falls back asleep, eventually, somehow.

The alarm shrieks him awake what feels like seconds after. 

He stumbles into his clothes, yawns through his skincare routine, nearly cuts himself while shaving. Hits Seungyoon's elbow with the door when he's trying to move past him to grab their toothpaste.

Seoul is still dark when they walk the dogs. Seungyoon rubs at his bruised elbow as they watch Thor chase leaves blown by the wind. And then he reaches into his pocket, and gives Seunghoon a spare dust mask, because the fine dust is bad today. Seunghoon knows now why he's not dreaming, when he was before — he is never the thoughtful one of the pair of them. He's always the one to leave his dust masks behind at home, and then buy new ones. He's wasted tens of thousands of won doing that. 

It starts raining when they're in the gym, sheets of water pouring down the windows, whipped by the wind. Seunghoon has his headphones in, his workout playlist on high volume. His feet hit the treadmill with the beat. He zones out, letting his body do the work. They're the only ones in the gym right now. Usually, Seunghoon would have expected Jennie or Bobby, but it looks like Jennie is sleeping in today. He doesn't think Bobby is even in Korea right now — all his recent Instagram posts have been from the States, and Seunghoon is still left on read on Kakao. It's been months. He clicks a button on the treadmill to make it go faster, hoping that if he runs fast enough, he'll not have to think about that. 

On the elliptical, Seungyoon presses his towel to his face. There's a sheen of sweat on his arms and legs, and Seunghoon isn't looking at that, he's just making sure that Seungyoon doesn't lose his balance while he's holding to the machine with only one hand. He thinks of how those fingers had felt on the back of his neck. Rubbing across his buzzcut.

Seungyoon pulls the towel down from his face, and their eyes meet. The tips of the hair framing his face are a little wet. He grins right at him, and Seunghoon feels his heart speeding up. He wonders if he's reacting like this because he just wants the attention. And Seungyoon knows he loves attention, and that's why he's playing right into his hands. 

He wonders how good he is at compartmentalising and lying to himself, really.

He punches the button for the treadmill to go faster, again, and looks away from Seungyoon's grin. 

And at Minho, who is looking at him. 

Minho has his headphones in, just like Seunghoon, his hair pulled back by a headband. Probably one of Seungyoon's. He's on the exercise bike, his back straight, his arms hanging at his sides.

Minho blinks at him. Seunghoon watches him glance at Seungyoon, and then back at Seunghoon. His lips quirk. Like he's figuring something out.

Seunghoon skips to the next song on his playlist and stares right ahead of himself, at the far wall. 

In the changing room, right before they're about to go into dance practice, Minho hugs Seunghoon from behind as Seunghoon is doing up the drawstring on his tracksuit bottoms. They're all freshly showered after the gym. Minho's skinny arms wrap around Seunghoon's middle.

It's crowded here, all of them and the dance team they're practicing with today squeezed into the space. Seunghoon inhales, and Minho's chest is flush against his back. Their muscles are still hot from the workout.

"Tell me," Minho says. His cheek is pressed against Seunghoon's shoulder blade. His voice is a little rough from the morning. On mornings like these, they're all so tired that they barely speak to each other. "Tell me who it is."

Seunghoon pulls his shirt down over his hips, trying to straighten it, but Minho is holding him too tight. One of these days, he will need to teach Minho a lesson so that he stops reading other people's texts over their shoulder. "No."

Minho asks, "Is it me?" He blows a raspberry on the topmost knob of Seunghoon's spine, on his tattoo. Seunghoon pinches his forearm, trying to get him to let go. Minho laughs, a chuckle into the fabric of Seunghoon's shirt that's warm on his back.

"Fuckin' bastard," Seunghoon says. All Busan, no regrets. He says it loud enough to make the dancers giggle. To make Seungyoon hide a smile in the folds of his hoodie as he's pulling it over his head to change. Seunghoon still catches it, though, as quick as it is, because he's looking for it. 

He pinches Minho's forearm again, harder this time, enough to make Minho's arms unwrap from around his waist. Jinwoo, fixing his hair using his phone camera, looks at them curiously. And then at Seungyoon, swigging from his water bottle. There's a look on his face like he's already figured it out. A look that makes Seunghoon's stomach clench.

* * *

"You should talk to Seungyoon," Jinwoo says. 

They're having dinner, gopchang gui at a little place hidden in a side street off a different side street, owned by a single ahjumma. She's watching wrestling on a big flat screen TV, mounted on the wall and the only thing in the place that looks like it's from this decade. The whole restaurant is smaller than their manager's office. There's a mirror down the length of one wall to make it seem bigger, but all it does it make it almost impossible for Seunghoon to escape his own reflection. He looks tired. It's just him and Jinwoo tonight. Seungyoon and Minho have gone to Chungmuro 2-ga because Minho wanted a new lens for his camera, and Seungyoon was picking up some film he had developed. Apparently, the one place on that street developed the best quality photos from analog cameras in all of Seoul, which, considering the size of Seoul, probably wasn't true at all. But Seunghoon couldn't help but feel fond of how dedicated the two of them were to their hobby.

Seunghoon pops a piece of intestine into his mouth. Hums. "I will," he says. "We said we'd run through the interview questions again tomorrow."

"I mean," Jinwoo says, chin resting on his interlocked fingers, "about how you've been staring at each other like you want to lick each other's teeth clean for weeks."

Seunghoon's chopsticks clatter against his teeth. He looks towards the ahjumma. She's still watching the wrestling, hunched a little, hands clasped in her lap over her apron. He looks towards the couple in the corner, who'd been there when him and Jinwoo came in. They're still both on their phones, ignoring each other, their food, and the pair of them.

He looks at Jinwoo, eyes wide. "Hyung!"

Jinwoo laughs into his hands, delicate and mischievous. "Come on," he says, "you're both so obvious. Hoon-ah," he says, trying for serious, "you have to do something about it. It's been long enough."

Kim Jinwoo, the first boy he'd ever kissed.

Seunghoon still remembers it. He remembers the taste of flat coke and sweet popcorn on Jinwoo's tongue when they kissed. Years ago, at this point. The way the tiny sugar crystal that was on Jinwoo's top lip stuck to Seunghoon's bottom lip when he pulled away. How Jinwoo had laughed, just as softly and playfully as he's laughing now, when he noticed. How he licked it off Seunghoon's mouth, and smiled wide, and how it made Seunghoon wonder how well he knew his hyung. Just as he's wondering now.

"He's the leader," Seunghoon says. He's not denying anything. Jinwoo would know if he lied to him, so he doesn't bother.

Jinwoo says, "So?" When he smiles, there's soft lines at the corners of his eyes. "He's our Yoonie. Don't you want to make him happy?" He lifts a slice of daikon to his mouth. Bites off a tiny piece. "Don't _ you _want to be happy?"

"I _ am _happy," Seunghoon says. 

Jinwoo hums. Of course he's not buying it. "Okay." And of course he's not arguing, because they're in public and Jinwoo knows to keep it behind closed doors. It makes Seunghoon furious. He wants to, just once, have a shouting match somewhere public and not care if he's overheard.

"Everything around us is fucked up," he snaps. "There's no space for… shit like that." There's a bottle of soju on the table. There's two bottles of beer in front of each of them. One empty, the other half full. "Have you read the news lately? Seen what's going on?" There's Seunghoon's shot glass, sweating wet. He throws his drink back. Jinwoo follows suit, the soju sliding down his throat easily. "We should focus on what's important."

Jinwoo raises his eyebrows. "Bullshit," he says gently. "What's more important than love?"

Seunghoon laughs, nasal and loud, enough that he nearly spills the soju on the table as he's pouring it. "I take back everything I said, hyung. You _ do _watch too many dramas."

Jinwoo just looks at him. He's got that look on his face, where his eyes are sharp, but only for a few moments longer than expected. And then he goes back to his food like they never spoke about this at all. Crunching the slice of daikon between his perfect teeth.

They finish their meal in silence, over the noise of the wrestling commentary from the ahjumma's big TV. And the little door in Seunghoon's mind shakes on its hinges.

* * *

Seunghoon dances his heart out. He dances like his muscles won't exist the next day, like lactic acid buildup is a myth. He moves like their most important show of the tour is tomorrow night, and thousands of people will be looking at him and him alone when he does his solo routine. He dances like work is the only thing that exists. 

The heating had broken in Seungyoon's room four nights ago. They had to send to Daegu for the replacement parts, and it was a weekend, and the boss' wife was in labour so he had to be at her side. These, and a thousand other little excuses from the maintenance company all boiled down to Seungyoon sleeping on the sofa for the first two nights, until Seunghoon put his foot down and told him he was sleeping in his room until the heating was fixed, because the sofa would do a number on his back. 

There were now two dogs in his room, and Seungyoon in his bed for two nights in a row, and Seunghoon hadn't slept properly the whole time. Before, it was because he was worried about Winner, and the company, and waking up to a phone call that would end his career. Now, it was because Thor loved to sleep on his shins, and because of Seungyoon. 

Because Seungyoon looked gorgeous when he woke up, sleep-slow, eyes still soft with last night's dreams, when he'd turn his head on Seunghoon's spare pillow and wished him a good morning in his barely awake, scratchy morning voice. Because he made the bed warmer. Because Seunghoon would sometimes catch him looking, with that same look he got sometimes right before he took a picture, like he was figuring out if the composition and the framing was right. Even though Seunghoon was just on his phone, checking the fine dust concentration levels before he got up, or rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Because they weren't kids anymore, they weren't trainees in the dorm, and it didn't feel as natural anymore for Seungyoon to just reach across the bed and pull Seunghoon closer. Because it got more difficult every morning to resist the urge to press himself against Seungyoon and smell how he smelled, of the warmth of sleep and the body lotion he used the night before.

So Seunghoon dances to not think about it. And he dances until sweat is pouring from his hair down the side of his face, his neck. Until his calves are screaming and his shins feel like they'll splinter. 

They cut the music, and he sits down on the floor so heavily he can feel it reverberate from his tailbone to his brain stem. It's all four of them today, with the complete number of backing dancers, because the tour is looming ever closer. 

Minho plops down on the floor next to him, hair in sweaty strands. And then he sprawls, a dark V on his chest and under his armpits from the exertion. "Fuck," he says, to the ceiling. "I want a cigarette."

"I want mango ice tea." Seunghoon sits with his legs up, elbows resting on knees. He's sweating so much there will be a Seunghoon-shaped stain on the floor when he gets up. 

Minho pokes his calf. "Hey, hyung, I have a question."

"Yeah." Seunghoon should go to the showers instead of wasting time here, but it's so hard to move now that he's sat down.

"It's about Seungyoonie," Minho says. Seungyoon is on the other side of the room, talking to the choreographer noona. Seunghoon had _ begged _to choreograph this one. They said they'd think about it, and then brought the choreographer in. He would listen to her, because it was his job to, but he didn't really want to talk to her if he didn't have to. He was glad they had Seungyoon for that. It was petty, sure, and unprofessional, and it made him angry with himself for giving in to his worst side like that. He'd work on getting better. Tomorrow. 

Minho says, "Are you ever gonna tell him?"

Seunghoon looks over. Minho is grinning, that kind of dopey, wide grin that he has when he's trying to hide how exhausted he feels. "Tell him what." Minho's grin falls, shrinks down to a confused little frown. The more silence that passes between them, the more his expression changes into a glare.

Seunghoon glares back. He's good at that. "_What, _Minho-yah."

Minho blinks, and the stare is gone. "Nothing, I guess," he says. And then, quieter, to himself, like Seunghoon isn't still glaring him down, "Huh."

"Yeah, nothing sounds about right," Seunghoon says. "I wanna go through the steps one more time," he calls out, loud. "I don't like how stiff we are in the second verse." 

He rolls his shoulders getting into formation again, and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. One more time, and then he'll shower until his skin is pink. 

The music starts up again, the bass thumping. Seunghoon's arms move. He takes the first step. On the second turn, he makes eye contact with Jinwoo's reflection, and wonders how much him and Minho talk.

On the fourth turn, he catches Seungyoon's smile, because he's looking for it. 

* * *

A notification from Instagram tells Seunghoon that Seungyoon tagged him in a picture. It's late enough that his body is trying to convince him it's time for breakfast, and he's trying to trick it into believing it's not hungry by slowly cutting an apple into pieces and eating them one by one, small bite by small bite. He's curled up on their sofa, Thor asleep next to him. Haute is curled almost on top of him, using his longer fur as a blanket.

Seunghoon is laughing in the photo, his cheeks round, his teeth huge and white. The focus is off, so the lines of his face are too soft. His hands, instead, are sharp, black smudges on his fingers, his wrist, and even one of his forearms. Black bean paste. He's laughing so wide that his eyes are closed. In the background, the kitchen cabinets, and almost out of shot, the stove with the pot of noodles. It's a photo from the evening they made jjajangmyeon together. When Seungyoon had said _ Your turn now, _and waited for the answer he knew Seunghoon had for him, and Seunghoon was too afraid to say it.

Seunghoon hasn't seen himself look this happy since those pictures from Hawaii, when the two of them went night swimming. They'd had enough beer and champagne that Seunghoon knew it would give him a headache the next morning, but it didn't make him stop drinking. Seungyoon'd had a waterproof camera, a yellow one, and he'd jumped into the pool with it. Seunghoon remembers laughing, although not at what, and the flash of the camera, and how blinding it was, and how it just made him laugh even more. And he remembers Seungyoon, in the pool, hair soaked and parted down the middle, his laugh skipping across the water, his earrings glinting in the half light.

Seungyoon takes photos of them a lot. They all pose, because it's second nature at this point to do that when a camera is pointed their way. Minho pulls stupid faces. Jinwoo does that thing where he opens his mouth just a little to give his face a pouty, dreamy look. Seunghoon pretends he's in a music video, and the track playing in the background is his favourite song. 

Sometimes, though, Seungyoon catches them before they realise that their photo is being taken. Minho, doodling something in his notebook, or Jinwoo reading, glasses low on his nose. Or Seunghoon, reaching for the camera, his hands sticky with black bean sauce, love on every inch of his face.

He scrolls down past his grinning face, to the comments under the photo. There's so many heart emojis, in all the colours, and crying emojis, and people cooing over how carefree he looks. One of the comments says, _ ah, Chef Lee~ _and he almost presses the heart on it. 

Seunghoon sits up. He rubs between Haute's ears, still looking at his phone screen and Seungyoon's post. He refreshes the feed, and watches the likes go up by the thousands. He sets his phone on the coffee table, screen down, and gets off the sofa.

Down the hall, his door is open just like he left it. There's music coming from his room, but it stops just as he's about to reach the doorway. He finds Seungyoon sitting cross-legged on his bed, an acoustic guitar in his lap. His elbows are resting on the body of the guitar, and he's got his phone out, typing something. Probably the lyrics of whatever he was playing, so he doesn't forget them. He's working on something new. Who knows if he'll be allowed to release it, but that never stops him. It doesn't stop any of them.

"Seungyoon-ah," Seunghoon says.

Seungyoon looks up from his phone. When he sees Seunghoon's expression, his eyes go wide. "What's wrong?"

Seunghoon leans against the door frame. Trying to feign nonchalance. Schooling his expression into something that won't make Seungyoon immediately guess how nervous he is. He says, "My ideal type. I figured it out."

Seungyoon puts his phone down next to his knee. He's wearing tracksuit bottoms, velvet and green, and Seunghoon _ knows _they're his, because he washed them this week. "Oh yeah? Let's hear it, then."

Seungyoon is watching him, arms hanging over the guitar, leaning forward so it's pressed against his chest. Seunghoon thinks he should probably step into the room. It's his room, after all. It's his bed. His stomach twisting, he tries to make his legs move, his feet take a step, but they won't listen. He laughs, but it's small and pathetic, closer enough to a whine that he feels annoyed with himself and that Seungyoon grins with sympathy. 

"My ideal type…" Seunghoon swallows spit. "He's tall, sexy, and from Busan."

The sky doesn't fall. A meteor doesn't hit him where he stands.

He watches Seungyoon's face change as he processes what pronoun he's hearing. His smile falters at the edges. And then Seunghoon watches it change again as Seungyoon processes the rest of the sentence. His eyes widen. 

Seunghoon doesn't have the vocabulary to express the mixture of confusion, awe, and something else that passes across Seungyoon's face, but then again, right now he doesn't have the vocabulary for much at all. He's amazed he's still here, and not jumping down his own throat in haste to take back everything he said.

And then, after a good eight seconds of staring, Seungyoon's face splits into a smile. 

"That's pretty good," Seungyoon says. "But we can't have the same answer."

Seunghoon says, "We can't— Oh."

He doesn't have to look for Seungyoon's smile this time, because Seungyoon is grinning now, as wide as his mouth goes. "Would be too suspicious," he explains.

And Seunghoon feels himself trying to hide a grin, too, and his cheeks are hot.

Seungyoon drums out a short rhythm on the wood of his guitar. Quirks his lips like he's decided on something. "Hey, hyung?"

"What?"

"Come over here and kiss me," Seungyoon says.

Seunghoon is laughing, but his feet are already moving towards the bed. "You can't tell me what to do," he says. Aiming for testy, but landing short of it. "This is _ my _room." 

He gets on the bed in front of Seungyoon, on his knees, and his heart is beating so fast. He pokes Seungyoon's knee. "That's my tracksuit," he points out. "It doesn't even look good on your freakishly long legs."

Seungyoon is still grinning at him. "Are you gonna kiss me, or are you gonna complain?" 

"I can do both," Seunghoon says, and kisses him. 

And it's not a dream this time, because Seungyoon laughs into his mouth, and then he gets very quiet as Seunghoon continues to kiss him, and very still as Seunghoon reaches up to put his hand on his face. And he groans in discomfort when Seunghoon braces his weight on the guitar, and Seunghoon says, "Are you fucking serious," and Seungyoon laughs, loud and happy and right next to his ear.

Seungyoon moves the guitar out of the way, placing it gently on the floor. He's just as gentle when he puts his hands on Seunghoon's waist, and leans in to kiss him. Seunghoon leans forward at the same time, and their foreheads bump against each other, and Seungyoon laughs again, falling back on the bed with a snort.

"You're really bad at this, hyung," Seungyoon says, lying on Seunghoon's pillow, laughing at the ceiling.

Seunghoon massages his forehead. His pride hurts more. "Take that back," he says, hitting Seungyoon's thigh. "I'm very sexy."

"It's okay," Seungyoon says, "I'll show you what I like." He tugs at the sleeve of Seunghoon's hoodie. "Come here."

And, heart soaring, Seunghoon does.


End file.
